


The Dark Maker

by Lytri



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Genius Harry, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Tom Riddle, Possessive Voldemort, Rating May Change, Robot Hermione, Robot Ron, Robot Tom, Robot/Human Relationships, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2018-08-11 19:52:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7905457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lytri/pseuds/Lytri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty years ago the robot Grindelwald gained sentience and waged war against humans.  Ten years ago he was defeated by Albus Dumbledore, his very own maker.  Ten years ago the Great Destruction happened, where all robots were destroyed and robot making was banned. Ten years later a fully intact robot who went by Tom Riddle was unearthed by Harry Potter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

# Chapter 1

Creeping slowly with a catlike grace, Harry wandered through the junkyard for any salvageable scraps. The musty scent of petroleum intermixed with iron penetrated through his sensitive nose latched onto his ratty clothes like a second skin. As he moved a sharp gale whipped all around him, chilling his skin through his thin clothing. He could feel goosebumps crawling their way up his arms in sluggish spirals with each step he took.

  
He was looking for metal, gears, wires—anything that he could get his hands on and then sell for a ridiculously high price. And people would buy what he offered as well. Materials had become scarce ever since the War with the Dark Lord Grindelwald, the only robot in history to gain a conscious.

  
He had been defeated by his own creator, Albus Dumbledore, a legendary robot builder. Ever since then, he pretty much became the emperor of the Mechania World. Harry couldn't help but snort whenever he heard the name of their world. There was so much irony about it. He didn't understand why it was never changed, though he supposed it could have something to do with the eccentricities of the Mechanian people. They were quite the rare breed, and that was putting it kindly.

  
You see, ever since the fall of Grindelwald, robot making had become forbidden; practically taboo. No one wanted a repeat of what had transpired some odd twenty years ago. And with the passing of the law, every robot in Mechania World—including the harmless toys of little children—was destroyed. It was called the Great Destruction, and it left only the destroyed remains in junkyards such as where Harry was salvaging around in.

  
Of course, the law, as found with any laws in a society, didn't completely stop people. Such disobedience was quite commonplace no matter where you went. Especially in the aftermath of war. Many had to make a living somehow, and being an honest man just wasn't possible if you weren't a pure-blood or if you were known for being a robot maker before the war. But then again, many pure-bloods dabbled in dishonest things; that was just the fact of things.

  
Most of the secrets and ideas in robot making was—and still are—passed from generation to generation in pure-blood families, so many pure-bloods become dark makers. That, Harry could understand. It was a part of their family history and tradition, and if Harry were one of them he would feel incensed that it ended up forbidden as well. Though everything else about pure-bloods Harry couldn't understand.

  
They were descendants of kings and nobles and had a reputation of marrying as close as first cousins. There had even been quite the scandal within the Black line when two siblings married and procreated a few centuries back. It was safe to say that madness tended to run in a lot of the families after so many centuries of inbreeding. They were at the top of society—the crème de la crème—living in luxury while the rest of the people lived in poverty, but Harry had to say that they certainly weren't the top of society’s minds.

  
The next step down from a pure-blood was a half-blood, which was what Harry is. It happened when a pure-blood married a mudblood, which was another name for the common folk and the majority of the population. It was most obviously an insult, but the mudbloods never protested against the use of the term. Or more accurately, they would never be _able_ to protest against it. That had very little power within society and were downtrodden under the might of pure-bloods.

  
Harry himself actually dabbled in robot making. And for an untrained maker, Harry could make robots with startling complexity if he said so himself. He, along with all the other robot makers, were called dark makers by everyone else, for they went willingly against the law. And they also symbolised the ever present fear of another Dark Lord rising.

  
The punishment for being found guilty for being a dark maker was either imprisonment or death, depending on how many robots were made by them and the complexity of them. Harry was pretty sure he hadn't done enough for death. But then again, he could be going by out of date standards. He honestly hadn't put much effort to keep up with the justice system. If he did, he was sure his head would turn to a pile of mush.

  
While prone to making complex robots, Harry had only made four so far. If small childhood toys were to be overlooked, that is. Two of his robots were made before the Great Destruction. He was confident that he would not be killed by The Dementor—which was absolute agony from what he heard—if he was caught.

  
The Dementor was a machine—but not a robot—which worked by manpower. The person being executed would be placed in a chair and the machine would be lowered until it impaled a person through the mouth. It was based off of medieval torture devices and created by a pure-blood to exterminate mudbloods at one point, though not many people knew that detail. Another name for it was ‘the kiss’. Harry never understood why people had to refer it to that considering the brutality of the execution.

  
It was, after all, quite the gruesome way to go.

  
The other punishment, imprisonment, was arguably the worst punishment. All dark makers who weren't executed were sent to Azkaban, the most secure prison in the Mechania World, for life more often than not. Prisoners had no rights there. The guards could do anything to them there. Anything but kill them, that is. But that wasn't a good thing. Death would be a mercy to the prisoners of Azkaban.

  
The guards themselves had earned quite the reputation in Azkaban. They were nicknamed the ‘Dementors’—Harry had no idea what was with people and their penchant for giving nicknames and monikers—and they were the prisoners main source of terror. They were said to bring the prisoners to insanity and the mere presence of them sucked out any hope of happiness of a person. They carried a chilling aura of death and cruelty.

  
Leaning down, Harry dug through one of the many junk piles, his hands running over jagged, cold metal and split wires. His hands were grimy and sporting nasty blisters, but that did not deter Harry, for he had to dig in the piles of metal and scraps in order to survive. He had long become accustomed to the pain. Any parts he found would first go to his robots and the remaining parts would be sold to his fellow makers.

  
His robots were complex, true, but they needed a lot of maintenance. They were mostly made out of old and rusted parts, and thus they were not as well working as his two robots before the Great Destruction. But they served their purpose, so Harry did his best to keep them up and running.

  
Still rummaging in the pile, Harry's eyes lit up when his hand hit something hard and solid. His arms were already fully submerged in the scrap pile and absolutely ached, but it was no matter to him. He was certain he had found something worth abusing his hands and arms over.

  
Feeling at it, Harry wrapped his hand around some sort of cylinder feeling metal. It actually felt like an arm to Harry. A fully intact arm of all things! Harry nearly wanted to shout for joy at his find. He could sell it for a very expensive price. He'd be set for half a year at least. Or better yet, he could replace one of his robot’s arms. It would be a fantastic upgrade. Hopefully they were compatible and didn't require any special touch ups to make the two compatible.

  
Pulling, Harry's was met with more resistance than he had anticipated. Frowning, Harry pulled his other hand out carelessly, acquiring shallow cuts along the way. Shaking it out a bit, he plunged it back in to grip at the arm as well. Trying once again, Harry still found that the arm would not budge no matter how much he pulled and tugged.

  
Biting his lip hard, Harry felt the familiar tang of blood fill his mouth. He knew what he had to do to get the arm out. And he didn't like it at all. It was risky. _Really_ risky. He could end up dying under an avalanche of scrap or even draw attention of a watchman. He wasn't suppose to be in the junkyard at night, after all.

  
It was already a miracle that all his scuttling and digging around hadn't caught the watchman's attention. He really didn't want to push his luck, especially when it was normally so rotten.

  
After a few moments of contemplation, Harry finally decided that it indeed would be worth it. An entire robot arm was something he just couldn't pass up. Screw the dangers. Harry was going to get that arm or he would die trying. He was certainly no coward.

  
Filled with new resolve, Harry removed his arms from inside the pile and then looked up. The pile was about five meters high, and around three meters wide. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Harry steeled himself and started to carefully remove scrap after scrap, grunting slightly at the heavier pieces, and gently place them onto the ground around him so he didn't make too much noise.

  
His hands trembling, both from nerves and the cold, Harry froze in fear when a particularly strong gale whistled by like a knife. A few moments later, one scrap slid, the path screeching down agonisingly slow until it fell onto the ground with a _clang_. That wasn't good. That _really_ wasn't good.

  
Looking up, Harry saw the pile’s structure was heavily imbalanced. The wind seemed to have jarred the already precariously towered pile. Various pieces of scraps were slowly sliding down, making even more low groans and screeches. It looked as if the pile was deliberately falling in slow motion in order to have Harry die of cardiac arrest. And it had nearly worked, too.

  
Panicking, Harry turned, fully intending to bolt. But unfortunately, he did not make it, for the previously slow falling pile all of a sudden came tumbling down at an accelerated speed and fell right on top of him.

  
Buried underneath all the scraps, Harry was not unconscious, no, but he sorely wished he was. Everything hurt. From his head to his back to toes, everything was burning and pulsing in agony. And there was a suffocating pressure on his chest, constricting his lungs and reducing his breaths to mere wheezes.

  
Biting his tongue hard enough for it to bleed, Harry suppressed a scream as he took in ragged, painful breaths through his nose. He could hear the telltale sound of metal boots approaching his location. The slow and even steps going _click, click, click._ They were the watchman’s boots. The sound of the metal avalanche had drawn his attention—and probably everyone else within a few kilometres—and he had come to investigate.

  
“Who's there!?” the watchman shouted when he reached the fallen pile. A beam of light was directed at the pile, just hitting Harry's eyes, and he felt his heartbeat stutter. Sucking in a large amount of air, he held in his breath, hoping that he was buried deep enough to not be seen.

  
Harry was in luck. A large pile of fallen scraps and junk was all the watchman saw. Scrutinising the pile a little longer, the watchman shook his head. “Must have just been the wind.” he mumbled to himself before turning and walking away. It was only when Harry could no longer hear him that he let out a relieved sound and resumed breathing.

  
Twitching his limbs, Harry tested his mobility. He could move all of them despite his pain, so that was good. Twisting his head slightly, Harry found why he had not been crushed to death. A larger piece of metal—too large for Harry to take with him—had fallen on top of him, somewhat shielding him from the scraps on top. But the problem was that it was digging into his chest; it was the source of his breathing problems.

  
Grimacing in pain, Harry slowly started to move his arms, trying to get them underneath him. It was a slow process, with his arms merely twitching more than anything else. He needed to get out before he suffocated. The questionable smells certainly weren't really helping matters; it was encircling his airways and practically choking him in its intensity.

  
Finally, after what felt like years, Harry managed to place his arms underneath him and started to feebly push against the ground. At first nothing gave, but Harry was not deterred. Continuing to push despite the immense shaking in his arms, Harry started to feel some movement starting to happen. Feeling hope, Harry continued to push and pull himself forward despite wanting nothing else but to collapse into a heap.

  
When his head finally surfaced from the pile, Harry took in a big gulp of air. It felt colder than before to him, the frigid air burning his skin. Tugging his other limbs, Harry slowly worked his way out from underneath the pile.

  
Finally out, Harry collapsed on top of the pile, not really feeling like he could continue to move. His arms felt like lead and his blood ice, and he could hardly think straight, never mind manage to stand up and remember the directions back to his house.

  
Laying back, Harry looked up at the stars and couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness. Another thing that had been lost during the Great Destruction was the brilliance of the stars. They just didn't seem to shine as brightly like before. They were dull. As dull as Harry's spirit now that he was all alone with only the company of his two robots, Ron and Hermione. The robots he had created before the Great Destruction had unfortunately not survived.

  
Even though it was probably unhealthy and showed heavy signs of madness, Harry had found affection for his two robots. It was a mix of sibling and parental affections. He had no one else to talk to in his lonesome house; no friends or family. He didn't know when it started, but he had somehow started to speak to Ron and Hermione when he felt especially lonely. After that, Harry started to treat them more and more like humans. They seemed even more human when he had managed to upgrade the two to be able to speak. Nothing as complex as human speech, but it was quite close.

  
Ron was his robot that did the physical work like labor and heavy lifting. Harry had tried to make him as human looking as possible, but there was only so much that he could do with scraps. He did, however, have very distinct, red hair. Though, in reality, it was a very large amount of rust. He sort of reminded him of the Weasley’s, but he tried not to think about that too much. Not all of them were bad, but the rest he didn't like too much.

  
Hermione, on the other hand, did mental work. Things like finding him a certain book or solving problems for him. She looked a little less human, for while she did have the correct body look, she lacked anything which resembled hair and her gears and wires brain was visible for all to see. But Harry definitely found her to act a lot more human than Ron. Probably because he used most of his materials on her mental functions rather than her appearance and sturdiness.

  
Closing his eyes, Harry let out a heavy sigh, the feel of hot breath leaving his lips slightly warming him, if only for a fleeting moment. He knew he couldn't spend the night on a pile of scraps in a junkyard. He would surely be caught. That or freeze to death, depending on how resilient his body was for the night, though he would wager that he would freeze to death first. His body, while somewhat built for agility and dexterity, was not the best example of a healthy body.

  
Pulling himself up with great reluctance, his muscles straining and twitching in irritation, Harry managed to get himself upright. Crinkling his nose at the state of himself, Harry went to get up only to stop abruptly. Something had caught his eye.

  
There, shining under the moonlight, was a pale, metal hand sticking out. It was a pale flesh colour, very similar to his his own, and it curved out like an actual human arm. Eyes widening, Harry realised it was the robot arm he had been trying to get. It seemed that his tumble wasn't for naught.

  
Moving forward in a wobbly crawl, Harry approached the arm and started to tear scraps away from it wildly. He knew nothing could fall on him again and that the watchman would be going to sleep like always. As more and more of the arm was revealed, Harry's eyes became wider and wider as he soon discovered a shoulder attached to the arm. And then he nearly fainted when he realised that it wasn't an _arm_ which he was digging up but an _entire damn robot!_

  
The robot now fully revealed, Harry was astounded at the workmanship on the robot. It actually looked like a human if it weren't for the cool touch of metal that Harry could feel under his fingers. It even had the proper anatomy too as Harry soon realised with a blush when he looked down.

  
Renewed with a new vigour, Harry grabbed the robot and hoisted it up, staggering at the weight and height of the robot. He was going to have a hell of a time getting the robot back home, but he would do it. He refused to leave such beautiful work to rust and be destroyed in a junkyard.

  
Pulling the robot along, Harry dragged it across the pile and then across the ground, internally wincing at each scrape and screech he heard. Thankfully, he did not wake the watchman as he left the junkyard, which was quite a wonder considering all the racket he was making.

  
By the time Harry actually got the robot back home, the sky was already turning orange with the approaching dawn. Harry's legs were a shaky mess and his arms were nearly limp at his sides. He would not last much longer.

  
Gritting his teeth, Harry stubbornly held onto his consciousness, sucking in his breath harshly. With the last of his strength he dragged the robot into the house. Once the door shut, Harry collapsed with a _thump,_ consequently bring down the robot with him. He had fallen unconscious from pain and exhaustion, his body unable to handle any more strain.

  
* * *

  
The next morning Harry awoke mid afternoon to a steady stream of sunlight peeking through the curtains. It gave off a pleasant warmth, and Harry kept his eyes closed to try and absorb it all. Opening his eyes slightly, Harry groaned at the brightness and buried his head into the metal chest he was laying on, his mind still heavily sleep addled. He didn't feel like getting up at all.

  
Mind still hazy, Harry frowned in confusion at the odd sensation of something poking his stomach. Wiggling a little bit, Harry still felt something poking his stomach. It was solid and extremely uncomfortable. It wasn't doing his bruised stomachs any favours either.

  
Wiggling some more in irritation, he finally opened his eyes to see what was the odd sensation. Looking down, he proceeded to make a sound very similar to a cat whose tail was stepped on. He quickly hopped off the robot—the very _naked_ robot—he was previously laying on like a spring, his face absolutely horrified. Averting his eyes, Harry stubbornly kept down a blush and scurried into his workshop.

  
He was _mortified_. Sure, he treated robots in a way that wouldn't be socially acceptable and he certainly had questionable sanity, but this was ridiculous. He was snuggling up to the naked robot as if it were a long lost lover or the last teddy bear in the world! He could just imagine being taken into custody not for robot making but because he was accused for sodomy with a robot—which he would _never_ do even if he was threatened. Even if it was a very attractive human looking robot.

  
Grabbing a pair of wrinkled trousers and a shirt—which belonged to Ron—Harry quickly dressed the robot, still averting his eyes. It's safe to say it took Harry a few tries before he managed to dress the robot, his hands fumbling and buttoning the clothes wrong quite a few times.

  
Sighing at finally being able to look at the robot without having to stare at it’s—or maybe he might as well refer to it as _he,_ considering he was probably already mad—private bits.

  
Bending down, Harry gripped the robot and pulled it— _him_ —up. Dragging him once more, Harry brought him to the workshop and placed him up against the wall. Panting slightly, Harry adjusted the robot until he was balanced upright.

  
“Ron!” Harry called out. Waiting a few moments, the sound of moving metal could be heard approaching the workshop. Not too long after, in walked Ron, Harry's robot and one of his best friends.

  
He sorely hoped no one decided to scrutinise his mind. He was quite certain they would end up throwing him in the loony bin. He probably wouldn't see the light of day ever again.

  
“Yes, Harry?” Ron asked him in a voice which was not quite monotonous, but not quite full of inflections either.

  
“Could you place this bloke,” Harry pointed at the robot leaning against the wall. “Onto the work table?”

  
“Sure thing.” Ron replied while moving to the other robot. Lifting the robot up effortlessly, Ron placed him onto the work table.

  
“Thank you,” Harry told Ron. “That's all for now.”

  
“You're welcome.” Ron replied before turning and leaving.

  
Turning to the robot on the table, Harry started to inspect him. He really hoped the robot was repairable. He would love to have another friend around. Even if they didn't feel emotion. Or actually care about him.

  
Man, was his life depressing or what?

  
Checking the robot over, Harry was joyous that the robot was repairable but also crestfallen at realising exactly _what_ was needed to repair him. Everything was in pretty good working order except for the central command system, which explained why the robot was not showing any signs of “life”. It needed a gold and copper entwined wire to reconnect the split between two circuits. The only problem was how to get such a wire. The 

  
It was rare. Very very rare. Dark makers have _killed_ to get their hands on such a precious part. And sadly, Harry knew only one person who either had the wire in her possession or could get it without ratting him out to the Aurors or trying to murder him.

  
Too bad she was hell bent on marrying him.

  
Ginevra Weasley, only daughter of the Weasley family. It was a pure-blood family which was firmly on the emperor Dumbledore's side. They were called blood-traitors for turning their backs on centuries of tradition and history; for shunning what their ancestors had practiced.

  
She didn't know he was a dark maker. That would be bad. He would rather commit suicide than be caught by a family on Dumbledore's side. It was one thing to be caught by another dark maker, for there was usually a 50/50 chance you wouldn't end up fighting each other, but it was an entirely different thing to be caught by one of Dumbledore's minions.

  
No one human knew he was a dark maker, actually. And he intended to keep it that. It was safer that way, for humans were by no means trustworthy with his secrets. Even if they wouldn't tell anyone, that doesn't stop them from slipping up accidentally or being persuaded into spilling his secrets.

  
Ginevra only knew that he would sell scraps to dark makers. That was illegal as well, but Ginevra overlooked that and said he was only doing what he had to to survive; that she understood times were hard and she didn't blame him.

  
She also said that such a small detail wouldn't get in way of their love. He still had nightmares when she had told him that. Especially when she was not so subtly pushing her breasts up with her arms.

  
Sometimes he wished he could just tell her that he wasn't interested in a partner with… _assets_ such as hers. But then he thought better of it when he thought of how much more crazed she would probably become. She would probably insist that he was mistaken or even that she could make him straight just for her. It was so ridiculous that Harry had little trouble believing she would do that.

  
But, as he looked at the robot before him, Harry believed some sacrifices must be made. He had already risked his life to retrieve him, he might as well go all the way and repair him as well. Besides, he really couldn't resist repairing the robot. And if he had to go to a completely psycho witch then he would do it. No matter how much it pained him to do so.

  
Turning, Harry exited his house and trekked through the streets. He didn't eat breakfast or change or even wash up. He was quite used to that gnawing hunger from not eating enough. It was the reason he was so small and skinny. Malnutrition would do that to you. And he was honestly too excited about his find to bother with his looks or hygiene.

  
Walking down the dirt path, Harry had never been more glad that he wasn't too far from the Weasley Family House. His muscles and body were still sore and throbbing in pain, and he didn't know what he would do if he had to walk more than a kilometre. Walking further down the streets and closer to the centre of the city, Harry stopped in front of a large, wooden cottage.

  
Knocking three times on the door, Harry waited.

  
And waited.

  
And waited some more.

  
And waited even more.

  
It was when Harry decided that they weren't home—which was a feat in of itself, for the Weasley family was very large and usually at least one was always there—that the door finally opened. The person who had answered was none other than Ginevra Weasley herself.

  
She was only a bit shorter than him and had much more meat on her. But that was not too surprising, considering who her mother was. She babied her only daughter and made sure she had lots of food. And she could afford to do so being a pure-blood and all, blood-traitor or not. She even insisted he eat a lot when he had visited before and she was the one who answered the door.

  
“Harry!” she squealed in happiness before hugging him tightly, earning a wince from Harry. She was nearly squeezing the life out of him. Harry held back the scathing insult which rested on the tip of his tongue. “What are you doing here?” she asked him.

  
“I,” Harry started, wincing once again when she sneezed even tighter. He was still very sore from his activities in the junkyard. “I need a favour.” Harry told her, hoping that she would not ask for something in return.

  
“A favour?” she asked while looking up at him.

  
“Yes, a favour,” Harry confirmed. “I require a gold and copper entwined wire.” Harry told her, paling slightly at the glint which overtook her eyes. That wasn't a good sign.

  
“A gold and copper entwined wire?” she asked him while stepping back from the hug and studying his face. “What would you need that for?”

  
“A…client has requested it.” Harry told her, going by the lie he had told her about being a dark maker scraps provider. Hopefully she wouldn't ask for more details after that.

  
“Ah,” She nodded her head in understanding. “And in return?” she asked the question Harry had been dreading.

  
“In return…” Harry started, having a sneaking suspicion what she wanted but not wanting it to happen. “Well, what would you like?” Harry managed to get out, internally dying a little inside at giving her free reign of what she wanted.

  
“I want a date.” she told him.

  
“A…date?” Harry asked slowly, wanting to make sure he heard her correctly.

  
“Yes,” she replied. “A date. I want you to take me out for supper.” She brought her arms up and crossed them, pushing her breasts up. Licking her lip, she suggestively looked at him. Harry really tried not to shiver. But of course, he failed.

  
“Are you cold?” she asked him in concern.

  
“No no, I'm fine.” Harry told her with a shake of his head.

  
Suppressing a grimace, Harry looked at her closely and came to a conclusion. There was no question that she would only do the favour if he took her out for a date. He really hoped she didn't have an expensive restaurant in mind.

  
“Alright.” Harry agreed, earning a triumphant smile from Ginevra and a high pitched squeal. He was so going to regret this, cool robot aside. He might as well of handed her a shovel and told her she could dig him his grave. Or maybe he had told her she could put a collar on him and walk him around on a lead.   
  
“Wonderful!” she exclaimed excitedly. “And you're just in luck. I have a gold and copper entwined wire on hand.” she told him while grappling his arm and practically dragging him inside. She was surprisingly quite strong.

  
He was dragged all the way through the kitchen and up the stairs. She only stopped when they were up in her room, a place Harry never wanted to see.

  
Letting go of his arm, she walked over to her desk in the room and rifled through the drawer. A little while longer and she pulled her hand out to reveal what he had wanted. Walking towards him, she handed him the gold and copper entwined wire.

  
“Here you go,” she told him while placing it in his hand. He really didn't want to know why she had such a rare wire part in her bedroom drawer. “We will have supper next week at Madam Puddifoot’s on Friday, 7:00 o'clock.” she told him, making him want to scream in frustration. While not overly expensive, Harry had no desire to go to that frilly and pink monstrosity.

  
“Of course.” Harry gave her a tight lipped smile while pocketing the wire.

  
“Oh and you must do something about that hair,” she insisted to him. “Maybe try a low ponytail or a braid or at least try to brush through it,” She looked pointedly at his mess of long locks. She then looked at the rest of his body. “And a very thorough bath as well.”

  
Wincing slightly, Harry had to concede at those points. He had been so exited to fix up the robot he found he had neglected to brush his hair or even wash up. He was dirty and covered in suspicious grime while his hair was completely tangled and sticking up at odd places.

  
Nodding his head, Harry turned and left. Once he was sure Ginevra could no longer see him, he hightailed it out of as if the Aurors were after him. And maybe that would have been the situation he preferred as opposed to going on a date with Ginevra. He might even go so far as to say he would rather spend a night in Azkaban than a date with her.

  
Making it to his house in record time, Harry paused inside while leaning over on his knees and panting. Maybe he shouldn't have run do so soon after the junkyard accident. His body was already screaming at him in outrage, and he really wasn't looking forward to tomorrow. He doubted he would be able to get out of bed even.

  
When he finally caught his breath, Harry stood up and headed for the workshop. He could barely contain his excitement. He was so close to repairing the robot.

  
Hurrying to the robot, Harry grabbed some pliers and tweezers as he went. Standing by the head, Harry took out the wire he had gotten from Ginevra and got to work in reattaching the disconnected circuit.

  
With steady hands Harry entwined the new wire onto the circuit. When it was finally attached Harry closed up the head of the robot, which surprisingly had some sort of brown hair made out of metal. It reminded him of very thin strings of copper.

  
Standing back, Harry watched the robot and waited in anticipation. Only moments later, the robot’s metal eyelids opened to reveal red optics. Sitting up, the robot looked up at him.

  
“Hello.” the robot greeted.

  
“Hello,” Harry greeted in reply. “My name is Harry,” he told the robot. “What's your name?”

  
“My name…” the robot started, as if he had to think about his answer. “My name is Tom Riddle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 25.11.2016


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for such a late update, but I'm still completely swamped with work.

# Chapter 2

 

 

Harry looked at Tom Riddle in interest.  He had never heard of a robot having a full name before.  Normally they just were given a first name or sometimes not even a name at all depending on the maker.  

 

_ Perhaps it's his maker’s surname,  _ Harry thought with a minuscule tilt to his head. 

 

“Riddle…is that your maker's surname?” Harry asked aloud his thoughts. 

 

“No.” Tom answered without any elaboration, his tone monotonous. 

 

“Oh…” Harry uttered, unsure of what else to say.   _ Perhaps his maker was just unique, then,  _ Harry thought while staring contemplatively at Tom’s unique physique.  It was truly one of a kind for a robot.  He looked so very lifelike compared to any other he had seen or made.  But then again, it could be due to the difference in materials he could get his hands on. 

 

Catching Tom’s eyes for a split second, Harry looked away quickly.  Glancing around the room, Harry rocked on his heels and twiddled his thumbs.  An awkward silence fell upon them as Harry tried to do everything  _ but _ look at Tom.  He failed, of course. 

 

Peeking at Tom inconspicuously out of the corner of his eyes, Harry repressed a slight shiver.  He couldn't explain it, but he received the strangest of feelings from Tom.  It made his skin colder than usual and it quite frankly unnerved him just a tad bit.  He couldn't tell whether it unnerved him in a good way or a bad way, though.  

 

“Do you require any more of my time or may I leave?” Tom asked eloquently, the sentence coming out slightly sharp and demeaning.  His posture was tall and straight even though he was sitting, and he gave off a superior attitude. 

 

Harry looked back at Tom and caught a flicker of emotion in his eyes.  He didn't know how it could be, considering robots didn't have  _ real _ eyes, but he would swear on his life he just saw a hint of annoyance in the robot's eyes.  Maybe he really was going mad.  Or he could be delusional from hunger and days on end of little sleep.  Or it could have just been the lighting. 

 

“Wah-well,” Harry stammered out, finding himself at a loss and just a bit flustered.  He never met a robot with such an attitude as Tom’s.  He could feel his own ire rising up at him.  He couldn't believe the  _ nerve _ he had to act in such a way.   _ He  _ was the one who had rescued and repaired Tom and quite literally risked his life to do so.  The ungrateful robot had no right to look down on him. 

 

“Go right ahead,” Harry told Tom, finally regaining his wits.  But inside be weeping at letting the robot go.  He had to go on a date with Ginevra for  _ nothing _ now.  “I find my company severely…” Harry paused a moment to look him up and down, pausing slightly longer when looking lower. “…Lacking.” Harry said, knowing that insulting with a double entendre would make most people affronted.  And he was quite correct, for Tom did not appreciate such a comment, robot or not.  He seemed far too human like. 

 

Tom seemed to bristle at what Harry said and a quick flash of anger appeared on his face, his red eyes seeming to glow a little bit.  “I find myself in quite the same opinion.” he told Harry in distaste and went to dismount from the table.  But what he did not realise was that while Harry did technically just repair him, he was far from an idealistic state.

 

Descending from the table, Tom’s legs buckled beneath him, refusing to move an inch.  He was ignorant about how he had been stuck in the junkyard for a very long time.  While his mental and computing capabilities might be up to date, his body was stiff from disuse. 

 

At seeing the robot fall, Harry couldn't help but let out a quick snort.   _ That should put him down a few pegs,  _ Harry thought in immense satisfaction.  He found what happened to be absolutely hilarious and it made him feel much better at Tom’s attitude.  But not completely.  He still found that he quite disliked him.

 

Tom shot Harry a look of annoyance and anger.  “What did you do?” he hissed out. 

 

“You're certainly not the shiniest piece of metal in the pile are you?” Harry commented while grinning, thinking that Tom knew he had been stuck in the junkyard. 

 

Tom just glared in response, his red eyes glowing ominously.  Harry wondered if Tom could shoot lasers.  He knew that was only stories in sci-fi books, but with the way he was looking at him it almost looked like Tom could. 

 

“Alright alright,” Harry said while putting his hands up in a placating manner.  “You do realise you've been buried under a pile of metal junk for what seems to be quite a while?” 

 

“What.” Tom asked, making it sound more like a demand than question.  It was then that Harry realised that Tom actually  _ didn't _ know he was stuck under a pile of junk and scraps.   _ Ohh, I can have fun with this, _ Harry thought with a wicked smile. 

 

“Now now, none of that attitude of yours or I won't tell you.” Harry told him sternly, knowing that the robot wouldn't like not being in control.  Tom practically screamed crazy, psycho, megalomaniac robot.  He just had that look to him in Harry's opinion. 

 

“Fine,” Tom gritted out.  “What do you mean by buried?” He asked, his voice harsh. 

 

“See, that wasn't hard,” Harry praised as if Tom were just some naughty child who didn't know any better.  He had to admit that he had a bit of a sadistic streak when he felt like it.  Or when he was annoyed with someone.  “What I mean is that I found you buried under a giant pile of burned and old metal scraps amongst other things.  Nearly crushed me to death getting to you.”

 

“I see.” Tom said.  

 

Harry gave him some time to process what he said, knowing that it might be a bit shocking to learn you've been buried for a long time in a junkyard.  “Do you want me to repair your body?” Harry offered, now feeling sort of bad for Tom after his initial annoyance at him wore off.   _ Maybe he was just so rude because he had been confused,  _ Harry thought with a bit of pity, feeling guilty for acting without thinking about the situation very much. 

 

Tom gave him a suspicious look with narrowed eyes.  After a few moments of staring, he nodded his head.  “Yes,” he answered.  “I would like that, thank you.” Tom added as an afterthought, looking for all the world like he had swallowed a bunch of rusty nails.  He certainly wasn't used to being so courteous to someone it seemed.

 

Nodding his head as well, Harry grabbed some tools and walked over to tom.  Kneeling down in front of him, Harry paused for a moment.  

 

“I'll need to remove your clothes.” Harry said, not being able to suppress a slight flush of embarrassment.  He was no prude or anything like that, but he had to admit that Tom’s maker knew what they were doing when making an ideal body.   _ Maybe he's a sex robot,  _ Harry thought while cringing slightly.  He really didn't like the concept of creating a robot for someone's pleasures.  It just seemed so wrong. 

 

“That is acceptable.” Tom gave permission, not showing whether or not he caught the various array of emotions which flickered on Harry's face. 

 

Raising his hands, Harry started to remove his button up shirt first, his light blush showing up on his fair skin the whole time.  It's not like he'd never seen someone naked, and he certainly was no prude, but he couldn't help but feel a little flustered as he undressed him.  Excluding his personality, Tom was a very attractive man.  

 

Removing his trousers, smooth, metal legs were revealed.  Stubbornly making sure to avoid looking at Tom’s nether region—as he had foolishly forgotten to give him underwear when he had dressed him, Harry started on the meticulous work of repairing him. 

 

It took a little bit at first for Harry, for Tom’s body structure was very complicated and very well disguised.  But he eventually got the hang of it, falling into his usual trance whenever he worked on robots and completely forgetting Tom's state of undress for the moment.  Before he knew it, he was already finished with repairing Tom. 

 

Harry stood up, his knee joints popping loudly.  “Well, there you go.  Good as new.” Harry could say he was quite proud with the way he had repaired Tom.  He would never do anything less than his best when it came to working on robots, even if said robot had a superiority complex. 

 

Tom stood up fluidly and tested out his limbs, still completely naked.  He looked satisfied to Harry.  He thinks.  

 

“You can, um, get dressed now.” Harry told him while averting his eyes, once again fully aware of everything.  The problem with trying not to look is that it just make you want to do the exact opposite of that. 

 

Shooting a smirk towards him, Tom slowly got dressed.  Harry scowled at him.   _ I take it back.  He deserves none of my pity,  _ Harry thought.  He was quite sure he had just fed the robot’s already inflated ego even more. 

 

Once he was done getting dressed, Tom turned and started to walk towards the workshop exit. 

 

“Well, it was nice meeting you,” Harry called after his back, not even gaining a reply as tom disappeared out of the room.  “Not.” Harry muttered. 

 

Looking around, rather unsure of what to do, Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste at the state of his workshop.  It was sorely in a need for some tidying up.  And a few decent scrubs as well.  He couldn't even differentiate the oil stains and the blood stains—an unfortunate side effect to working with sharp tools—it had been so long since it was cleaned. 

 

Deciding he really didn't have anything better to do, he started to arrange and clean up his tools and supplies, all the while humming a jaunty tune.  He didn't particularly like the song, but it was thoroughly stuck in his head that he found himself humming it anyways.  By the time he was done, he could already see that it was nearing close to the evening. 

 

Stepping out of the workshop, his throat absolutely parched and his stomach stabbing in hunger, Harry made his way to the kitchen.  His bare feet slapped lightly on the floor, which was in as sorry a state as the rest of the house.  

 

What was once most likely a dark, mahogany floor was reduced to a fading brown with various cracks in it.  Someone could potentially fall right through if they weren't paying attention.  It was quite hazardous.  All of the house was, really. 

 

The kitchen itself was dreadfully bare and surrounded by a short strip of granite countertop.  It was scratched and gray and the edges were thoroughly chipped.  Though it still seemed to be sturdy enough to house at least some weight. 

 

The cabinets were in a worse state, however.  Most of them were hanging on by only a hinge and many of them were full of more dust than food.  It hardly looked like it could sustain a mouse nevermind a full grown human.

 

Reaching out and opening one of the cabinets, Harry pulled out a bag of cut bread.  Opening it, he took out two slices and then put the bag of bread back.  Closing the cabinets softly, careful not to break it, Harry placed the two slices on the table and pulled over a jar of jelly.  Spreading out a generous amount on the bread, not really caring that he wasn't sparing some for another day, Harry picked up the bread and went to walk to his room.

 

Passing the living room while eating his sandwich, Harry all of a sudden paused, then backed up slowly to stare incredulously at the scene before him.  

 

Tom Riddle, who he was quite certain would have left ages ago, was sitting in one of the chairs and reading a book.   _ He's programmed to read books! _ Harry thought in awe.  It was very rare for a robot to have so many high tech capabilities similar to humans and computers.  Grindelwald had actually been a very high tech and high functioning robot, which also led many dark makers to believe that if they made a robot similar to Grindelwald that they would gain sentience.

 

Across from Tom was Ron, sitting quietly, and just staring at Tom blankly with what seemed to almost be tense shoulders.  Harry had no idea what made Ron seem so tense.  He didn't even know that Ron could look tense.  He was certain he hadn't built him to be able to do so. 

 

“Uh…” was Harry's intelligent comment at the situation in front of him.  Blinking owlishly, Harry continued to stare at the scene before him, his sandwich practically forgotten in his hand.   _ What the? _ Harry thought. 

 

“Hello Harry.” Ron greeted.  

 

“What's going on?” Harry asked slowly, glancing between the two, unsure of who he should be looking at. 

 

“I don't know.” Ron answered. 

 

“This is quite the fascinating book,” Tom told Harry, not looking up from what he was reading.  “It shows detailed theory and systematics of robotic construction as well as the struggle between the law and tradition, society and ethics, family and loyalty…” he trailed off. 

 

Interest slightly peaked, Harry strained his eyes to see the title, internally blanching once he a leather bound book.   _ The Melancholy of Nothing  _ it read _.   _ He couldn't believe that out of all the books Tom had to choose, it had to be the one he wrote.  If it ever got out that  _ he _ wrote it, he couldn't even imagine the repercussions.  He knew that the Order of the Phoenix, the emperor’s organisation, was looking for him for his head.  He was just glad he wrote it anonymously.  

 

“What are you still doing here?” he demanded in an annoyed tone, ignoring the comment about the book and hoping he wouldn't bring it up anytime soon. 

 

Raising his head to look at Harry, Tom raised an eyebrow and gave him a smirk.  “Was I supposed to leave?”

 

“I was under the impression that you were.” Harry told Tom, his mind racing to figure out his reasons for staying.  He really didn't want him to stay much longer.  He didn't know what his maker was thinking, giving the robot such an unattractive and annoying personality. 

 

“Hmm, I'm quite interested how one so young as you could be so knowledgeable about robot making.  Especially when you repaired me, considering how complicated my design is.” Tom said. 

 

“That's it?” Harry asked while giving him a look.  “Simple curiosity?” Be sorely doubted that.  He had only known the robot for a little while but he could already tell a good portion of his personality from their interactions. 

 

“Yes, simple curiosity.” Tom repeated, his face the picture of honesty.  Harry didn't believe it for a second.  

 

“If I tell you, will you leave?” Harry asked Tom.  He felt sort of an uneasy feeling at the prospect of Tom staying.  He couldn't describe it, but there was something terribly foreboding about him which made Harry have the urge to run away as far as possible from him.  Either that or stick as close as possible—he was, after all, curious as well—but he was going to ignore that urge.  He had better self preservation than that. 

 

“Of course.” 

 

“Alright then,” Harry said with a sigh.  “I started ever since I was child.  It was only small things at first.  I had no toys for myself, so my thought process then was to make my own.  I then started to become dissatisfied with such small and incomplete things as I grew older, so I started to read a lot about robot making and I never stopped since.” he explained, not going into very much detail.  He had no wish for Tom to know too much about his past.  “Are you satisfied?” 

 

Tom narrowed his eyes but did not answer.  He seemed to contemplate Harry's question for a few moments, just intently studying Harry.   Just as Harry was preparing ask the question again, he abruptly stood up and made his way out of the house, the door bouncing a few times before fully closing. 

 

Harry plopped down onto the thread barren and stained couch, his head tipping back to look at the peeling paint of the ceiling.  A dry flake of the ceiling fell off and drifted down to land on his cheek.  Wiping off the flake, Harry glanced at the door which Tom exited out of and let out a large sigh.  He was glad that was over. 

 

Closing his eyes, Harry was content to just sit there and relax.  But, just as he was starting to drift off, the sound of the door opening caught Harry's attention.  Tilting his head towards the source of the noise, Harry's eyes widened in shock at what he saw. 

 

“What?” Harry exclaimed while fully turning towards the smirking figure of Tom Riddle.  “But you said!” he protested. 

 

“I agreed to leave if you tell me, true,” Tom said.  “But you never said I wasn't allowed to come back.” 

 

Harry just sat there staring at Tom, his mouth opening and cling in shock.   _ That smug bastard!  _ Harry thought in irritation. 

 

“I still have questions.  Many questions.” Tom told Harry. 

 

Harry grit his teeth.  “If I answer them, will you leave permanently?” Harry asked.

 

“Perhaps.” Tom said. 

 

“Yes or no, Riddle.” Harry demanded. 

 

Tom paused for a second.  “Yes.”

 

Harry scrutinised his face for a while before turning to face forward.  “Alright then, what do you want to know?”

 

“Do you know why I was buried in a junkyard?” Tom inquired. 

 

“No.” Harry shook his head. 

 

“Can you theorise?”

 

Harry paused for a few beats.  “I believe that, during the Great Destruction, your maker did not wish for you to be destroyed so they hid you in a pile of junk.  That's the only thing I can really think of.  Even by that theory I find your state, while damaged, was in quite good condition despite being buried for a while.”

 

“The Great Destruction?  What is that?”

 

Harry turned to look at Tom sharply.  “You don't know?” Harry asked only to answer the question himself.  “Of course you don't know, you're central command system was damaged when I found you.  

 

The Great Destruction happened ten years ago, and was an event which happened because law which banned robot making was passed.  Every single robot in existence was ordered to be destroyed, and the penalty for keeping robots or making them is either a sentence into Azkaban or death.”

 

“I see,” Tom paused.  “And you make robots despite this?”

 

“I see nothing wrong with it.  So what, one robot gained sentience?  That is hardly a reason to destroy all of them.  I don't really see the problem with them gaining sentience either, really.”

 

“Really?” Tom probed.

 

“Yes.  I mean, there is nothing wrong with a robot becoming more human.  Sure, the one robot that actually did started a war, but if I were a robot who gained sentience I would too.” Harry said, not really thinking about what he was saying or why he was telling Tom of all people.  It just felt so nice to be able to tell someone his inner thoughts.  Even if they were a robot, but then again that didn't hold much weight in Harry's mind.

 

“You would wage a war?  Truly?” Tom looked fully interested now.  Ron had long since moved and Tom had taken his seat to be in front of Harry, intently looking at him in rapt attention. 

 

“Well, yes.  Most of the world used to and still does treat robots like slaves or servants to do the dirty work.  If I gained sentience, I certainly wouldn't want to actually Connie doing that.  I mean really, you would think people would have common sense!” Harry's face was slightly flustered after his passionate rant.  Looking up, Harry met Tom's intrigued eyes and instantly blushed in embarrassment. 

 

“One last question.” Tom told Harry with a smile.  

 

Harry let out a tired sigh, feeling tired already from all the questions.  “What is it now?” Harry asked in exasperation.  

 

“I would like to know more about the author of this book.” Tom raised the book he had been reading before.  

 

“Why?” Harry asked cautiously, internally dreading the answer. 

 

“I find myself quite fascinated with the author's mind.”

 

“Oh,” Harry said while swallowing nervously.  He didn't like the gleam Tom had in his eyes.  “Well, I'm sorry but I can't really say.  The author is a complete mystery, really.  No one really knows who they are or where they live or even what gender.”

 

“I see,” Tom noncommittally replied.  “Then may I know why this book seems to be the original?” Tom asked while opening it up to show Harry.  

 

There, on the pages, was his almost illegible handwriting on the pages.  He had written the book nearly two years ago and it had been his first attempt at calligraphy.  It was safe to say that the first attempt didn't work out so well, but Harry did eventually improve his calligraphy to something much more refined.  

 

“That…” Harry started, his mind racing for some sort of excuse.  “All of the copies are like that.” Harry lied, knowing Tom wouldn't know if the other copies of his book were in print or script. 

 

“Really?” Tom asked while shooting Harry a sceptical look.  “Are you sure?  That is a rather peculiar thing to be done by an author,” He looked down.  “Especially with such…unique handwriting.”

 

“Yep,” Harry confirmed, ignoring the insult towards his handwriting.  It was only his first attempt at calligraphy, so he had an excuse.  Or that's what he told himself everyone he saw it. 

 

“It's true that no one knows who the author is but there  _ is _ clues that he's a little eccentric by reading just his book.” Harry continued fabricating his lie while mentally taking notes on what he was saying.  Hopefully it was never found out that he had lied. 

 

“I see.” Tom said, giving Harry no indication that he caught the lie.  There was, however, no indication that he believed it either. 

 

“Have I answered all your questions?” Harry asked Tom.  

 

A pause.  “Yes,” Tom answered.  “For now, that is.” he added. 

 

“Are you going to leave?” Harry asked, having a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn't be leaving any time soon.

 

“No.”

 

“But you  _ said. _ ” Harry stressed. 

 

“I lied.” Tom replied completely unabashedly. 

 

_ He actually admitted that he lied! _ ? Harry thought in frustration. 

 

“ _ You! _ ” Harry said while standing up.  “No, I can't deal with this right now.  I'm going to bed.” Harry stormed out of the room. 

 

“It's not even six o'clock.” Tom commented after him, still being his obnoxious self. 

 

A door slammed shut and the click of a lock was heard. “I don't care!” Harry answered.  

 

* * *

 

Dumbledore sat in his office, his robot bird Fawkes perched next to him.  He was at his desk, stacks or scattered and disorganised papers in front of him.  In his hand was a quill which he used to write on all his paperwork, his eyes occasionally straining even with his fragile spectacles resting on his nose.  

 

Being an emperor was hard work.  Many underestimated the amount of work which had to be done when one was a ruler, though one really shouldn't if they aspire for positions in power.  Especially the amount of paperwork to be done.  Dumbledore did not trust anyone else to do his work for him lest they do something they weren't supposed to. 

 

“Have you found anything, my dear boy?” Dumbledore asked with twinkling eyes as he stood up, revealing his ridiculous looks.  He wore an absolutely appalling blue and green and gold robe which reached all the way to the floor.  You couldn't even see his shoes.  He looked like he belonged in a mental ward—or a circus—rather than an office, though the office looked quite  _ unique _ as well. 

 

It was large, very large, and practically every inch of it was covered in  _ stuff _ .  There was no other way to describe it.  It was just  _ stuff.   _ There were portraits on the walls as well as cases and cases of knickknacks all over.  Most of the stuff there was either useless or just there to take up space.  It wasn't even aesthetically pleasing to the eye.  There were even a few  _ socks _ in the ceases, being displayed as if they were works of art.  

 

Severus couldn't help but internally sneer at the emperor’s strange sense of style eccentricities.  How one so undignified and senile could be placed in the highest level of power was beyond him.  The whole of Mechania World was just completely insane in his opinion.  No sense to them.  They'd probably make a toddler the emperor as well if they could.  

 

“No,” Severus responded, a minuscule flicker of emotion the only thing which revealed his annoyance at being called a boy.  He was no ones boy, never mind the old coot’s.  “The true identity and location of the author of  _ The Melancholy of Nothing  _ is still unknown.  It's almost as if they were a ghost.” Severus said with hidden admiration.  He has to admit that the author was intelligent and cautious to be able to keep hidden for so long.  

 

The book had been published nearly two years ago.  No one knew how it was published or even who the publisher was.  It just seemed to have shown up on the shelves of dark maker stores everywhere as if they had always been there.  It was really only by chance that Severus had stumbled upon its existence.  If it hadn't been for Lucius, he probably would of never have.  After that he had reported immediately to Dumbledore, albeit with a great reluctance.  he found he quite enjoyed the author's dark humour and more than often cynical wit.  

 

“You found nothing new?” Dumbledore asked in a disappointed, grandfatherly voice.  His blue eyes had lost their twinkle gradually until he looked far past his age; as if Severus’ news had placed a great burden on his shoulders. 

 

Severus did not buy it for even a moment.  He knew how manipulative Dumbledore could be.  That he didn't care about the means for the end.  He knew it very well, from a time when he was much younger and much more foolish. He had been thoroughly played by Dumbledore, and he was now paying for it in his later years.  He couldn't get out of the slyly crafted web he was trapped in.

 

He had been fascinated with robots every since he was a child.  Not with making them, however.  No, he was much more interested in experimenting with what robots were made of.  How foolish he had been, so fascinated with it that he strove to learn everything about it no matter what cost.  He was blinded by his thirst for knowledge. 

 

And it had led him right into Dumbledore's trap. 

 

“I see, my boy,” Dumbledore heaved out a sigh and stroked his beard, interrupting Severus’ reminiscing.  “It worries an old man such as myself that there are still dark makers out there spreading such a vile art.” 

 

Severus wisely chose to keep silent about the fact that he himself could be considered a dark maker, even if he no longer made robots.  Though, Severus still discretely looked at the red bird which was completely still.  He knew Dumbledore still kept Fawkes despite the rule he had put in place himself.  He could hardly wait for the day that Dumbledore’s secrets came out for all the public to see. 

 

“Well, you'll just have to keep trying.  We have to get rid of this threat.” Dumbledore dismissed him.  

 

Nodding his head, Severus exited his office stiffly, his cloak billowing around him.  With quick steps he strode down Hogwarts, a once prestigious robot making school but now the emperor’s home and headquarters.  It was a shame that such a magnificent school was reduced to a senile rulers’ play house. 

 

Making a left, he exited the building and headed for Lucius’ manor.  They had been friends ever since they were children when they were were attending Hogwarts.  Despite their rather rocky start because of the difference of blood status, Severus has managed to work his way to the respect and friendship he had now.  It was because of that that he made sure to keep him informed. 

  
He had much news to tell him.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, well, its been a while. This isn't fully edited under a critical eye, but it's been so long since an update that I feel I shouldn't push it off any longer.  
> I've been and still am a little under the weather, and I'm not sleeping much, so updates on any of my stories are still going to be very slow and inconsistent.
> 
> As for the story, if there's any glaring mistakes or weirdness, feel free to point them out as usual.

# Chapter 3

 

Harry lay in his lumpy, small mattress, already feeling the knots he was going to have in his back from laying on the bed. His bedroom was as small and run down as the rest of the house, with floorboards that barely supported his weight and a cracked wall that was ready to cave in at any moment. The only exception was the large grandfather clock placed in the corner of the room, ticking a few seconds too slow. A small oil lamp, old with semi-burnt glass rested on the bedside table.

Despite his outburst towards the insufferable robot, he did not go to sleep. He actually doubted that he _could_ go to sleep after everything that went on today. He just felt so confused about everything.

Tom was a rather strange character. A robot with a last name and an insufferable personality. He felt far too human to be a robot, yet he lacked far too many of those intrinsic qualities that actually made someone human. He was like an entirely new breed; unclassifiable in society’s boxes.

He let out a heavy sigh and ran his hands over his face. Merlin’s rusty wrench, he thought in despair. _How in the world am I going to keep this bloody, insufferable robot a secret? There's no way…_

He was already harbouring Ron and Hermione. A third robot would just be tempting fate. Third time's the charm, as they say. He's already had far too many close calls regarding his identity as a dark maker. If he added a robot who seemed far too liberal with his tongue to the mix, he would be better off presenting himself to Albus Dumbledore gift-wrapped and with a bow on top.

 _Yes,_ he decided with a heavy heart, _Tom has to go._

He frowned. The robot seemed far too determined to stay with him. How was he to chase him off? While the robot was a pain in the arse, as a dark maker, destroying or even tampering with a masterpiece like Tom would feel like sacrilege. But besides the use of force, what else could he do to make the robot leave?

He hummed in contemplation before deciding to think on it. A couple days shouldn't bring death knocking on his door. At worst, Tom would just have another malfunction or difficulty that would require another rare robot-making part.

A big yawn made its way out of him, momentarily surprising him. He didn't realise he was so tired. He rarely had time to think about sleep, what with all the work he had to do. He was already struggling financially, and things were only getting worse.

The maintenance required from Ron and Hermione was really hitting him hard, more so as the years went by. Yet another reason why he shouldn't want Tom around. He wouldn't be able to just watch him deteriorate, and would spend precious money needed for necessities to make sure he would be well maintained. He could already feel his soul flying through the chimney at the prospect.

Yawning once more, he turned on his side and stared at the picture frame perched on the bedside table. _Yes, Tom would spell my doom,_ he thought, staring at the three, grim-faced people in the photograph, his mind going back to darker times.

He reached out a hand and brought the picture frame closer, lightly caressing the protective glass with his finger. One of the people in the photograph was a sixteen-year-old Harry, his mouth tight in wariness and his eyes a dim green. The blonde to the right and a little behind him was his former schoolmate Draco, arms crossed and wearing a similar expression to him. And the last person, Snape, greasy-haired and with a hooked nose, stood even farther back, leaning against a doorframe, his figure shrouded in shadows.

His relationship with Draco and Snape had started out terribly and with great animosity. He distinctly remembers that his first meeting with Draco began with him calling him a “mudblood”, and his first meeting with Snape was a snapping lecture of how inadequate and ungrateful he was. He couldn’t stand them, and vice versa. They would go out of their way to make each other miserable, and it even got to the point where they went way too far and tried their hardest to make each other _hurt_.

When the war with Grindelwald escalated, however, they ended up forging a strong bond with each other. All the bad blood and misdeeds done to each other just seemed to be washed away. But then again, nothing mends relationships like fighting a war together. A toxic relationship such as theirs would have just been too much of a liability. They had enough problems worrying about the enemy, nevermind their allies.

The photo was taken right after the defeat of Grindelwald, when spirits were low and hearts unsure; everyone was left to pick up all the little pieces that once were their lives. It had been - and still is, even now - especially bad for those who had attended Hogwarts.

Everyone who went there, whether teacher or student, was branded as a vile robot maker, which was later dubbed “dark maker”. Many are even seen as to have been in cahoots with Grindelwald. Those with power and influence, of course, had such labels washed from their names. But those who were nobodies - without sympathy or support - were practically left to rot. They could not find jobs, no one would shelter them, and they were seen as little more than dirty cockroaches; to be squished under people’s feet.

Harry himself was - _still is_ \- one of those nobodies, left to scrape by on the cruelness of society. He lived in an abandoned shack, after all, and could barely get by half of the time.

 _To think,_ he mused, _that the happiest moment of my life was the gateway to my very own hell._

He can still remember the events that led him to Hogwarts with a startling clarity. That was mostly due to the fact that the events, while the best thing that ever happened to him, were rather traumatising.

He had just turned 11 at the time, bright eyed and still so terribly naïve. He was serving Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and their son, Dudley, breakfast when the most amazing thing he had ever seen happened.

A majestic, bronze owl had swooped through the chimney. It was obviously well cared for, the metal glistening in the light, and it’s beady, black eyes held a convincing illusion of life.

The owl was also holding a thick letter in its talons, and dropped it right into Harry’s hands. His Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, however, were by no means thrilled, and before he even had the chance glance at the letter, Uncle Vernon had snatched the letter out of his hands. It was at this point that the owl’s mouth opened, and an old man’s voice came through.

“Now, now, Mr Vernon, we shall have none of that. Give the boy back his letter,” the old man’s voice said in a chastising way.

His face lit up in fascination. He could have sworn that the owl was magical at the time. How else could the metal bird talk?

Uncle Vernon gave a nasty sneer. “I want none of your robotic devilry nonsense in this house, do you hear? It's bad enough we have one of your country’s death machines rampaging in and out of England. Others may be fooled, but we know all about the truth of your people’s _Grindelwald_. That monster is no human, it's one of your wretched country’s creations.”

Uncle Vernon’s face had turned a beet red, and this one angry, purple vein protruded from the side of his forehead so much Harry feared it would burst. He subconsciously took a few steps away from him, his expression nervous.

“You let loose that maniac, and now you expect us to welcome one of your kind in our home?”

Uncle Vernon gave Harry a nasty glare, causing him to lower his head. “Having to welcome the son of those good-for-nothing freaks of nature is enough. Don't try to push our generosity as good, respectable people.

“Now out!” he turned to the bronze owl and raged. “I don't want to see one of your _things_ again.”

The owl, despite being made entirely out of metal and wire, seemed to give an affronted look. “Very well,” the bronze owl sighed and took flight back into the chimney. As disappointment and crushing sadness overwhelmed Harry, however, the bird gave some parting words.

“But I—no, _we_ —will be back.”

The following week could be summed up as a giant disaster. All sorts of robotic creatures graced the Dursley house from dawn until dusk, delighting him and raising Uncle Vernon’s blood pressure to undocumented heights. Aunt Petunia always looked two short breaths from having a heart attack, her elongated and papery-skinned neck always quivering, and Dudley had barricaded himself in his room, refusing to leave until the robots stopped coming.

Dudley did, of course, make an exception for meals.

Uncle Vernon finally snapped exactly six days (and 13.4 hours) in when an iron spider, roughly the size of Harry’s face, interrupted Uncle Vernon’s and Aunt Petunia’s _special time_. Childhood trauma aside, Harry could recall that Uncle Vernon had then proceeded to smash the spider to pieces with a hammer, which prompted an actual human to visit the Dursley house.

The very next day, a man standing roughly 2.5 metres in height knocked down their door and explained to him about Hogwarts, School of Automatonics and Robotry. He was, of course, thrilled about the prospect of making all the fascinating creatures that had visited the Dursley’s, and immediately accepted.

That was the day he sealed his fate.

* * *

As Harry slept soundly, and Tom was doing Merlin-knows-what, a silent figure of a taller than average man was slinking quietly towards the decrepit shack. With platinum-blond hair and stormy-grey eyes, the figure cut both an imposing and striking figure. Despite it still being broad daylight, however, the man was doing exceptionally well at being invisible despite his eye catching appearance.

He looked quite determined, his mouth set in a hard line and his eyes narrowed. But he also looked a bit hunted, his pallor almost ashen and his shoulders tense.

Slowly, he crept around the shack until he reached Harry’s bedroom window. With a discreteness of the highest order, he opened the window and slipped into the room. Quietly approaching Harry’s sleeping form, the man lightly caressed his sleeping face before moving his hand to his shoulder and shaking him awake.

“Hmm?” Harry hummed questioningly, groggy from being woken up too soon after falling asleep. He peered up at the figure standing above him. They looked more like a blob than anything else.

“Who…?” he muttered sleepily.

“Come on, Harry. Wake up,” the figure urged.

“…Draco?” Harry asked as his mind finally started to clear. “What are you doing here?” He sat up against the wall, his back slightly twinging in pain.

Draco looked around the room suspiciously and then leaned in closer to Harry. “I'm here to warn you,” he said with a grim face and a hushed whisper.

Harry warily looked around his bedroom as well. “Warn me?” he asked. “Warn me about what?”

“You’re currently on Dumbledore’s radar,” he revealed, going straight to the point.

“Wha—!” Harry started to shout, but Draco, already expecting the reaction, covered his mouth with his hand.

“Listen, Harry. A person was following me farther back, and while I did manage to lose them, they might have caught my trail again. I'd rather not have what I'm telling you be revealed, so keep quiet and don't make this any more suspicious looking than it already is. Do you understand? I don’t need the Order on my ass. I’ve already got enough problems to deal with, and I don’t need that barmy old man poking his nose where he shouldn’t.”

Harry nodded his head obediently. Despite that, however, Draco did not remove his hand.

“Like I was saying, Dumbledore has you on his radar. One of your nightly excursions in the junk yards was caught on a security camera. It was only a brief moment, but it was enough to catch your face. While that itself isn’t enough to warrant any kind of detainment, be prepared for people to watch you more closely, and possibly even investigate you. You and I know that only one kind of people go in the junk yards anymore.”

Harry instantly paled at the the new information, and removed his hand.

“Do you know who he might send?” Harry asked, his mouth suddenly feeling dry and full of chalk.

Draco pursed his lips. “No, but I have my suspicions. You're going on a date with that Weasley chit next week, right?”

Harry grimaced. “Please don't remind me,” Harry frowned before asking, “Wait, how do you know that?”

Draco smirked at Harry's misfortune. “Didn't you know? Your date is pretty much the talk of the town. That Weasley chit has been practically telling the whole town how you two are in love and that you're soon to be married and will have a bunch of little, red-headed bastards running around.”

Harry's face contorted. “ _What?_ ” he hissed, absolutely horrified.

“How did she get you to take her out on a date, anyways? It would have to be something pretty big to get you of all people to agree. You don't even like women, never mind Ginevra Weasley.”

“Well. . .’ Harry began, looking down at his lap and wringing his hands. ‘I needed to get my hands on a gold and copper entwined wire,” he mumbled lowly.

“What?” Draco asked. “Speak up, you idiot,” he said the insult in a fond tone. “I can't hear you.”

“I needed to get a gold and copper entwined wire,” Harry still mumbled, refusing to look at him.

“ _Harry,_ ” Draco said, getting a bit annoyed.

Harry sighed, slowly moving his eyes to meet Draco’s. “I needed a gold and copper entwined wire,” he said more clearly, chewing at his bottom lip in nervousness.

“…What in the world would you need that for?” Draco asked with no small amount of confusion. “I know very well you don't sell such risky items.”

“Well…” Harry hedged. He looked around suspiciously. “You said you lost your shadow, did you?” he asked a bit nervously.

Draco glanced out the window. “I can't be entirely sure.” Standing up, Draco looked around the room. His eyes immediately zoomed in on the washroom. He grabbed Harry’s wrist and dragged him towards the door. “Are there any windows in the washroom?”

“No,” Harry said and shook his head.

“Good,” he replied and pulled them both in, shutting the door and locking it. Turning to face Harry again, he asked in a whisper, “Now, what is it that you have to say that makes you so nervous?”

Harry swallowed while still looking around, as if expecting that someone would pop out at any time to execute him. “I found a robot,” he admitted.

“A robot?” Draco asked.

Harry nodded once. “Yes. A fully intact, highly advanced robot. The technology is on an entirely different level than any other robot I’ve seen or heard of.”

Draco’s eyes widened in surprise. He too looked around the small room in caution. “Are you seriou—” a brief flash of panicked concern went through his face, “are you telling the truth?”

Harry's eyes softened, and he couldn't help but give a small, fond smile. “You don't have to avoid saying his name, Draco. It's alright.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he insisted, his eyes unreadable. “Now, as I was saying, did you really find a fully intact robot?”

“Yes. I found him on one of my excursions to the junk yards.”

“Him?” Draco asked.

“Yes,” Harry nodded. “The robot is a him, and extremely human-like. Once I repaired him, that is. He even has a surname. It's Riddle. His full name is Tom Riddle.”

“I see,” Draco said, looking like he wanted to say something else. “May I see him?”

“…All right,” Harry dragged out the words.

Suddenly, Harry’s eyes lit up with an idea. “Would you help me get rid of him?”

“Get rid of him?” Draco asked, shocked and even a bit appalled.

“While I would love to have a robot like Tom, I can't afford to keep him in more ways than one. Not only would he be high maintenance to keep in working order, I have no wish to be given The Kiss, and keeping three robot is practically a one-way ticket. Even more so now that I know I'm being watched.

I don't want him destroyed or anything like that, but I can't take care of him. Do you know any dark makers who could? Or better yet, could you take him in? I know Malfoy manor has plenty of places to hide another robot, and you also have the means to keep him maintained. And if it’s you, I know I can trust you to take care of Tom.”

Draco pursed his lips, his eyes a bit reluctant. “I’m afraid that, at the moment, I can’t take in any more robots either. While I am still in the clear, my father is having troubles, and we have to play things a bit safe.”

Harry wilted at that.

“But,” Draco started, “I think, if I can assess him first to see which makers would have the expertise and ability to harbour him, I can find someone for you.”

“Thank you, Draco,” he said in relief.

“It's for my advantage,” Draco only said. “Now, where is this _Tom?_ ”

“Ah, yes.” Harry pulled Draco out of the washroom and opened the bedroom door. Looking at Draco, he said, “He's just out here somewhere. You can wait in the parlour while I search for him. He's most likely snooping around where he's not supposed to,” he said the last sentence with a frown.

Draco raised a single, elegant brow, but did as Harry suggested.

A shadow caught Harry’s eye, and he gave a quick glance out the window, but nothing was there. Shaking his head, he muttered to himself, “You’re just being paranoid, Harry. It's all in your head.”

As he walked out of the room, a head full of long, red hair popped back up.

Ginevra gave a sinister smile.

* * *

Meanwhile, Draco was doing his best to make himself home on Harry’s ratty couch. It wasn't going so well, his rather privileged upbringing and luxurious lifestyle disagreeing with every aspect of Harry’s house.

The sounds of footsteps neared Draco.

“Finally find your wayward robot, Harry?” Draco asked, not looking up from the original copy of Harry’s _The Melancholy of Nothing_. “You know, I still don't understand how a person so gifted at robot making, and who can do the most demanding and intricate craftsmanship, is so awful at penmanship that it makes my eyes hurt,” he commented.

Draco frowned when he didn't receive Harry’s usual witty and scathing response.

“Harry?” he called, turning his head to look behind him.

A pair of red, glowing eyes stared back.

Draco immediately jumped to his feet, his hand subtly touching his concealed weapon, ready to grab it at a moment's notice.

Every child who attended Hogwarts for more than three years were given a choice of weapons to defend themselves with against any wayward robots they created in the future. After their weapon was chosen, they would be taught how to personalise their chosen weapon and wield it. The teachings on weapon use and customisation even became its own class when Grindelwald turned his attention onto their school.

The possibilities of weapon customisation was only limited by one's imagination, resources, and genius. Draco himself had chosen a beautifully crafted pistol, and had customised the bullet chamber to emit a melting heat, so that the heat resistant bullets would come out of the gun like a miniature comet. The bullet would come out so fast and so hot that it went through flesh and bone like it was butter. And, more importantly at the time, it would pierce through robot steel with little trouble.

He always admired Harry’s weapon, which was truly a marvel. He has no clue how it was crafted, for it seemed to defy all sorts of laws. His weapon was an electrically charged sword that was about as long as his arm, and looked to be made out of shining gold, but the material was actually something much more resilient. From what he knew, it was indestructible and could cut through anything. It was such a shame that he never saw it in Harry’s hands ever again after the war.

“Who are you?” he asked, staring at the man in front of him intently. There was something… _off_ about him.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I would like to know that as well. What are you doing in this house? How did you get in? I would have known if you entered through the front door. You seem well acquainted with Harry as well, and you confirmed one of my strong suspicions, but that does not tell me much.”

Draco frowned, refusing to give any information away. He had no idea if the man in front of him was an enemy. In the case that he was, he would not be the one to foolishly open his mouth.

The man took a threatening step towards him. Feeling twitchy, he immediately grabbed his gun, a breath away from pulling it out and pointing it at the strange man.

The man’s gaze went to his hand and then looked back up. “There is no need for that…” The man tilted his head minutely. “Draco Malfoy.”

“How do you know my name?” he asked, alarmed.

The man gave a slow smile that many would consider charming, but all Draco saw was menace. “Oh, I know a lot of things about you, Malfoy,” he replied cryptically.

“Like what?” he asked, unable to keep his curiosity at bay.

He gave another minute tilt of the head, as if thinking, and then his crimson eyes pierced Draco to his very soul. Draco’s stomach instantly filled with dread.

“Your manor houses six robots at the moment, two of which are short, creature-like servants. The other four, however, are most interesting, and modelled after actual humans. Many dark makers would consider them works of art.”

Draco’s face instantly paled, and he took on a defensive posture. He had no idea how the man had gotten that information. If any person of the general public could get ahold of such knowledge, then the Malfoy line would have already been incarcerated in Azkaban or executed.

“Now,” the man began, his face becoming hard and emotionless, “tell me how you got in here, and what your relation is to Harry.”

Draco kept quiet.

“It would be such a. . . _shame_ if the fact that the Malfoys are illegally harbouring robots in their manor was made public, would it not? Especially when your father is already under enough stress and suspicion.”

Draco had a strong urge to sneer at the man. “Through the window. I came through the window.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Through the window? Which window?”

“The bedroom window.”

“And why would you enter through that window?”

“Because Harry was in there.”

“And what was so urgent that you needed to enter through his bedroom window to see him?”

Draco once more hesitated.

“Don't think for a moment that you can lie to me.”

Glancing into the man’s eyes, he instantly knew that he wasn't bluffing. “To warn him.”

“Warn him? Of what?” While hard to see, curiosity and something else lit up in the man’s eyes.

“There you are,” Harry interrupted by walking into the room, glancing at the sort of standoff they were having. “I guess it's too late for introductions,” he remarked.

“Not at all,” the man said. “We haven't been in each other's presence for more than a moment.”

“Oh, well, Draco, this is Tom. Remember the robot I was talking to you about?”

Draco’s face plainly showed his surprise. “What?” He scrutinised the man - who was apparently a robot - closely, looking for any signs that he was indeed not human. In the end, he couldn't find anything that would differentiate Tom from any other human except for the unnaturalness of his eyes.

While Tom was a fascinating piece of work, he couldn't help but wonder - and fear - if there were any other robots lurking around, donning a human skin. If there were any other robots as sentient as Tom, lying in wait for the best time to strike.

“Who was his maker?” He asked, his emotions mixed in regards to Tom’s creator.

“No idea,” Harry shrugged. “Tom doesn't know either.”

“So, do you think you would be able to take him in?” Harry asked, changing the subject.

“What's this?” Tom asked, his voice carrying a hint of steel. “What do you mean by ‘take him in?’”

Draco and Harry warily looked at him.

“Well, while I would love to keep you, I'm afraid I just can't afford to. If you haven't noticed already, I'm not the wealthiest person out there. I already have two robots to take care of, I just can't take in a third. Especially one as advanced as you are.”

“Is there another maker as skilled as you? I will not have my existence put in to the hands of incompetent makers.” The robot’s eyes started to emit a faint glow.

Harry turned hopeful eyes to Draco. “You know someone, right?”

He remained quiet, his lips pursed.

“Draco?”

“I've met many makers in my life, from the novices to the masters, but I would be lying if I said I’ve met another maker as talented and great as you. A robot of this calibre requires the best maker possible.”

Harry's cheeks were dusted with a light pink. “Draco—You know I can't take such a risk right now.”

“I'll cover the costs of keeping Tom.”

“What? No you won't,” Harry instantly refused.

“While you may not be showing it, I know how desperately you want to keep Tom. I can see it in your eyes: a longing. Robot making is your passion, and losing the opportunity to study such an advanced robot would be crushing.

“Not to mention, you are lonely. And while I would prefer it if you were in the company of humans, I feel like Tom would provide better company than your current robots at the moment. Having someone is better than no one.”

“And what of Dumbledore? I'm already under suspicion. A third robot will be just tempting fate,” Harry asked, but he could already see the will to refuse fading.

“I had no idea that Tom was a robot before you told me. He could pass for a human easily,” He said with full confidence.

“If you say so,” Harry said doubtfully.

“Don't worry about it,” he said. “If anything goes wrong, I'll be there to help.”


End file.
